


The Longest Night

by PinkPenguinParade



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Aziraphale Loves Crowley (Good Omens), Crowley Loves Aziraphale (Good Omens), Hey sorry I got you a party, Holiday Fic Exchange, M/M, Post-Almost Apocalypse (Good Omens), Post-Scene: St James's Park 1862 (Good Omens), South Downs Cottage (Good Omens)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-12
Updated: 2020-12-12
Packaged: 2021-03-11 05:28:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,603
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28020027
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PinkPenguinParade/pseuds/PinkPenguinParade
Summary: There was one visitor who would be welcome, always. But he’d stayed away for all these months. Aziraphale didn’t expect to see him now--Crowley wouldn’t be coming. Might as well lay it out and stop dancing around it, really.They’d had so many winters together on this island. He’d come to see the demon everywhere, in the gold of the candles and the brass of the buttons, in the russet and crimson of the ribbons and hollyberries--Aziraphale sighed, again, and scolded himself. “He is ademon.It’s for the best if we are not seen together as often.”-----------Or, Crowley wakes from restless dreams into a world hurtling into the dark of winter. Aziraphale loves Christmas, but his heart just isn't in it this year.It's 1862. Humans have figured out holidays and reconciliations. Our boys might need to borrow a page or two.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 10
Kudos: 57
Collections: Grow Better / Scribbling Vaguely Downwards - Holiday Swap '20





	The Longest Night

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Fallinfromgrace](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fallinfromgrace/gifts).



> For the lovely Fallinfromgrace, for the Scribbling Vaguely Downwards/Grow Better holiday exchange. I hope you enjoy this--I had a lot of fun writing it!

Crowley slept, and dreamt of holy water.

In some dreams the angel held it just out of reach, a strange game of chicken where in order to play he had to risk his entire existence. In some it was delivered to him, sent by an angel who could no longer bear to look at him, with just a note that said, "I trust you know what to do.”

Sometimes all he could hear was the word _fraternizing,_ the crack in that voice that he loved, the tears springing out in sky blue eyes under a ludicrous hat.

It still rang in his ears when he woke, feeling entirely unrefreshed. _Fraternizing._ Reducing them and everything that they've been to each other for thousands of years, the tears and the fights and the meals and the blood, into something shallow and ugly.

He made himself dress, go outside, check the papers. The world kept moving. It had been most of a year--long enough he didn’t quite want to return to the neverending zoetrope of his dreams. Not long enough for the hurt to have faded.

Long enough, though, that regardless of the hurt, he was feeling the familiar pull toward the angel. And based on the wretched weather and candles and bloody greenery everywhere, it was coming up on the solstice.

Crowley sighed. Apologies did not come naturally to a being who was by his very fabric supposed to annoy and offend people. He would be the first to acknowledge that he'd never quite figured out how apologies were supposed to go.

 _Humans_ , though... humans had been doing this a long time, and Crowley had been watching them do it. Holidays, feasts and celebrations, the turnings of the seasons and the flooding of the rivers, the bringing in of the harvest, the drinking the last cider and the opening of the new wine… in the remembrances of their lives these little marks in the calendar tended to prompt a kind of amnesty.

Perhaps, Crowley thought, he could keep Christmas in his own way.

***

As a general matter, the principality Aziraphale had become fairly fond of a Victorian Christmas. The explosion of light and color almost never failed to raise his midwinter spirits; the accompanying surge in cheer and goodwill was a balm on the edges that had been roughened by a year of city life in close contact with so many humans.

This year, however, he was finding it a bit more difficult. He still replayed the fight they had, castigating himself for it over and over. He should have chosen his words more carefully, he should have seen the mood that Crowley was in, he shouldn't have been taken so off guard by the request…

It wasn't as though he'd never seen this before. For all that he normally thought of Crowley as cheerful and optimistic--particularly for a denizen of Hell, where optimism was neither common nor a useful survival trait--the darker moods were no stranger to the demon. 

He hadn't seen behind that optimism until the humans invented beer, and they’d tried the new drink together. Then he’d learned that Crowley'd had a rough century of it--Hell on his heels to always do more, fights with other demons as the Earth became a highly sought posting. The relentless weight of being given a task and then told off when he did it better but not in the _precise way_ that he was commanded.

He’d watched it go in cycles, patterns over the years as Hell (always behind the curve) sent reprimands for things Crowley had stopped doing or 'innovated' something he'd tried and discarded decades before. And Hell's pronouncements always came with dire threats and promises.

“I should have seen the signs,” he muttered to himself as the last customer exited the shop after another busy day. He’d ordered in the Christmas stories this year and some of them were doing quite well--he’d even allowed authors to come in to greet people. It did a service for his neighborhood and for the authors and it even kept people away from _his_ books. It had become a bit of a yearly tradition. 

And this year, like so many other traditions, his heart simply wasn’t in it. 

He glanced at the sky outside and lowered the lamps; pulled down the shades and flipped the lock. Turned the sign firmly to ‘Closed.’ He’d done a decent day’s business; the local publishers and authors would both have a little more money for Christmas, and he could take the extra profits and make sure they were spread around the neighborhood. But for right now, all he wanted was a bit of quiet and solitude for himself. 

Well, he thought, there was one visitor who would be welcome, always. But he’d stayed away for all these months. Aziraphale didn’t expect to see him now.

He pulled down a wine glass, and a Syrah that was just starting to turn suddenly found itself full-bodied and fresh as he poured a rather more generous glass than he otherwise might have. But he was expecting no-one--he’d delivered his reports earlier in the week, there had been no particular signs of Gabriel deciding that he needed regular spot-checks again, and... Well. And Crowley wouldn’t be coming. Might as well lay it out and stop dancing around it, really. 

They’d had so many winters together on this island. He’d come to see the demon everywhere, in the gold of the candles and the brass of the buttons (so much less luminous than those lovely eyes), in the russet and crimson of the ribbons and hollyberries (not nearly as lovely as that hair, even with the rather unfortunate current fashion for heavy sideburns and mutton-chops).

Aziraphale laughed a little into his wine, remembering Crowley’s flirtation with mutton-chops, ginger hair crawling across his face....

And then he sighed, again, and scolded himself. “He is a _demon._ It’s for the best if we are not seen together as often.”

Aziraphale huffed at himself and picked up his books to take upstairs to his small flat. A little reading would go nicely, and all the warmer if he could tuck into his ancient bed for it.

He got three steps, then turned around and picked up the wine to take with him as well.

***

Soho didn't have the amenities of the more prosperous areas; there was not a velvet ribbon to be seen and the fine candles that were in vogue for large trees were nowhere in evidence. But people had done their best with festive paper and old cloth, swags of greenery (real in some places, in some carefully crafted from whatever materials were at hand), carved wood and baked clay and whatever else might be made festive.

In the middle of that the old bookshop was a somber spot of gloom--very definitely Closed For The Evening. There was a hint of light around the curtains drawn in the upstairs windows, but that was faint and likely only visible from the street because of Crowley’s excellent night vision.

The angel had a little flat up there, he knew. He'd never been in it--the potential surveillance on them both meant that while his presence in the public areas of the shop, or even the back room, could perhaps be explained away, there was much less excuse for either of them allowing the other into their living quarters.

He also knew, though, that Aziraphale's flat was often used as much for extra storage as for living. They'd had discussions through time about sleep and Aziraphale had been... not dismissive of the concept, really. Just clearly uninterested as long as there were books to read, plays to go to, people to help.

And now, the angel apparently sat in his little-used flat, lights low. Above a dull shop that should have been blazing against the darkness, hung with greenery to call back the spring.

 _Good,_ part of him thought--the part that, deep down, wanted to see people suffer. The part that was still so angry at the angel, that wanted to see him hurt the way Crowley had.

He crushed the thought relentlessly. It was very demonic, but it didn't make him feel any better. Knowing his angel was miserable only meant that they were both miserable, and being miserable was why even though he was still so tired, he couldn't sleep anymore.

“Oh, Mister Crowley! It's you!"

He wasn't sure how long he'd been there, looking up into barely-lit windows, but it was clearly long enough to have been noticed by Aziraphale's neighbors. He didn't quite remember this one's name. "Yeah," he said absently. "It's me."

"Haven't seen you around for quite some time," the man went on jovially. "Are you not going to go see Mister Fell?"

"He's closed up tight at the moment. Doesn't want to see me."

"Think it might be just the thing, though. He hasn't quite been himself these months. Surely a visit from an old friend would do a world of good." The man peered closer. "Oh, unless you’ve had a falling out?"

"Been out o' touch for a while," Crowley said. Then an idea began to bloom. "Oi, you run the grocery, right?"

"That's me, yeah."

"I think... I might have some custom for you. And a nice treat for as many of your neighbors as you can help me wrangle. Make up a bit of a surprise for Mister Fell."

***

The sun came up, leaking past the edges of his heavy curtains. Aziraphale set away the empty wine bottle, marked and closed his book, and straightened himself up to get ready for his day.

There were customers, in something like the usual ratio--a few people to buy books, for themselves or (increasingly as they got closer to the 25th) as presents for loved ones. He made a note to replenish the paper he was using to wrap up people's packages.

Far more of his customers fell into a second category, though, of people for whom he was responsible. He had adopted this country and this neighborhood, and the people who lived here had come to know that old Mr Fell at the bookshop would help them, sometimes in ways that they could never have dreamed.

He made sure that Alice had a few extra shillings in her pocket, plausibly caught in the lining of her old coat, to allow for a plumper Christmas dinner. Arranged for young John to find a job soon, one that would work with his skills and still allow him to take care of his mother, and as an afterthought sent a blessing along to her as well, to ease her bones and lungs against the cold.

Gertrude and Berenice came around back with a discreet knock and he brought them a small box without being asked, knowing the contents would help keep the girls safe while they worked. He allowed himself to share Berenice’s delight when he also handed her the latest installment of _Black Bess, or the Knight of the Road,_ which she’d been following since the first issue. Jean stepped in, in workman’s togs with her hair cut short, to ask for help taking on a proper job to work off her father’s debts.

He helped them all. He saw them all, both as kindly Mr Fell and with his other eyes, that Saw what they needed and who they were, and he sent them back into the world a little brighter and happier than they had been. It was his job, yes, but it was also something he loved to do, even if he occasionally still got notes from Gabriel for frivolously using miracles on the ‘little people’. 

By the end of the day, though, he was tired again. He was tired more often these days, a weariness he couldn’t quite shake and didn’t dare look at head-on, and he closed the shop up methodically with his mind on a nice dinner, a glass of wine, and a snug read in his bed upstairs.

***

Crowley spent the day busy as well. He consulted further with the greengrocer, and left with a list of people to talk to--the wine dealer and Aziraphale’s favorite baker got visits, and some of the more involved ( _busybody,_ Crowley thought to himself) neighbors, who could be trusted to be indiscreet in the most discreet ways. A few more visits to various people for various aspects, and then one final one, for something very special. 

It was only a few days til Christmas, and even fewer til the solstice. He smiled to himself, quietly, and stole back to his flat to warm up. 

***

The sun filtered past the curtains. Aziraphale rose, straightened himself up, and went down to open the shop. Christmas would be in a few days and then he could rest, close the shop for a week and maybe even leave London for a few days. A bit of a change would do him good, he thought. 

As had been the case all month, a few people asked about the lack of decoration; as had been the case all month, he made noncommittal noises and changed the subject. Customers came in with lists and questions, customers went out with festive airs and new (or gently used) books, or small blessings, or just the thing they needed for someone’s present or oh, Mr Fell, however did you know how to take care of Mother’s Gout (“Why books, of course, so much information is kept in books!”) or Thank You, Mr Fell, you’ll never know what it means to me, you putting in a good word for me on that job...

Aziraphale was tired, but he made sure to always have a smile and a kind word for people, as long as they only touched the books at the front of the shop. 

And then he did it again, and then he did it again.

And he couldn't wait to be done.

***

“All right,” Crowley said, and he might have used a tiny miracle to make sure he could be heard without shouting. “Is everyone here? Do we have everything? Is anyone missing?”

A chorus of _Here!_ and _Aye!_ and _Yes!_ hailed him.

“Cheers. Ready to start up? Count of three and remember this is for Mister Fell.”

***

Aziraphale’s last customer was being stubborn. He’d tried several things to convince her that truly, it was time to go home now, and Eleanor was very determined to ‘just look at one more thing, Mr Fell, sir.’

“My dear girl, I really must insis--” he broke off, curiosity flaring at an approaching hubbub outside his shop.

The door--only unlocked because Eleanor had kept him from closing--burst open and the hubbub resolved itself into a rousing and decidedly off-key chorus of _God Rest Ye Merry Gentlemen._ What seemed nearly half of Soho piled into his shop, many of them laden with packages or jugs.

Aziraphale’s temper, which had flared on realizing he had so many more people to deal with, suddenly evaporated as the rear of the group parted and Crowley sauntered in. There was a smile underneath his black hat and dark lenses, and Aziraphale almost thought he caught a wink before Crowley began directing people through what was obviously a very rehearsed invasion.

The next song, appropriately, was _Here We Go A-Wassailing._ Aziraphale had turned his back for only a moment, and when he turned again one of his tables had been cleared and re-set with a large bowl into which spiced wassail was being poured. 

“Where are my _books!”_ he squeaked indignantly. 

“I took care of them,” Crowley said from just behind his shoulder. “They’re in the back, safe and sound.”

“There were very valuable books on--!”

“Angel.” Crowley leaned in, speaking low into his ear. “This is for you. It’s meant to be a party. I took care of it.”

Now Aziraphale was looking, he could see that care had been taken, after all--the shimmer in his senses resolved itself, on inspection, into a careful miracle overlaying the shop. No-one would spill their wassail, no-one would damage anything. Even the people busily hanging up pine boughs and swags of holly were not, in fact, actually damaging anything, although it did help that he’d never taken the nails down from previous years’ decorating. 

“Crowley! You--” 

The demon shushed him again. “It’s the solstice. The light comes back, in the darkest winter. Worth a drink, I think?” And his hand was suddenly full of a goblet, handed to Aziraphale with a flourish.

“I… yes. The light comes back,” Aziraphale said, taking a drink. 

Soho had clearly missed its angel’s cheer--Kieran had brought his fiddle and Patrick his bodhran and they struck up to accompany the singing. There was impromptu dancing, and more people filing in and somehow, astonishingly, finding room for themselves in the old shop. It went on for what should have been far too long; the drink never running out or quite managing to go cold.

Young Jack was trying to teach him the steps to a dance where nobody was quite doing the same steps as anyone else (and Aziraphale was trying to remind himself that it’d been thirty years gone since Jack had been ‘young’) when he realized that he hadn’t seen Crowley for a while. His steps faltered, and he looked about--felt out into the crowd, and found nothing but the bright sparks of merry humans. 

He sighed and excused himself from the dance, mollifying the crowd by instead volunteering to hold baby Myra and letting her tired mother go and join the dance.

Aziraphale bounced the baby, who had settled right down in his arms after days of being fractious and colicky. He let himself think for a moment of Crowley and the work he’d put in just to start the party if he wasn't going to stay. They’d not had much time to talk and moreover couldn’t have done so in this crowd, no matter how much he couldn’t stop himself wishing. But there would be time later and there were too many people here to worry overmuch about it, so he leaned into the cheer and started considering what he might do for the demon in return. 

Everyone eventually calmed down enough for a rousing toast of “Waes Hael!” before people started to filter out home in earnest. Aziraphale sent them off in small groups with small blessings; he’d partaken in too much wine and dancing not to be smiling as he saw them into the world. 

And now he knew, at least, that no matter what had passed between him and Crowley, they weren’t _broken_ \--he could catch up with the demon later, now that the overture had been made. 

It was quite late by the time the last few stragglers stepped out with their carefully-collected wassail bowl and cups, presumably to be returned to wherever they had been borrowed. Aziraphale shut and locked the door with a sigh, leaving the shop blazing into the darkness as he made his evening rounds. 

True to Crowley’s word, the books were fine; true to his precautions, not a drop had been spilled (not for lack of anyone trying!). It might almost not have happened but for the reminder of the greenery and lights, the faint ringing of laughter and song that had soaked into the walls. 

Well. He would have to catch up with Crowley and... and thank him, somehow. Not an actual _thank you,_ of course, that would be far too dangerous, and it was far too late now to think of heading over. If Crowley wanted to talk right now, he would have stayed, he thought. He might just pop over in the morning, though.

Aziraphale felt more himself than he had in months, as he slowly dimmed the lights and settled in his old wingback chair to read through the rest of the night.

***

The morning after the longest night dawned fine and clear, if a little late for Aziraphale’s tastes. He closed his book and got up to face the day--there were things to do, after all, and he’d promised to open the shop today--but he was already planning to stop by Crowley’s flat with a bottle of wine after. Perhaps they could talk, properly this time, about the demon’s mad desire for holy water. Perhaps this time he wouldn’t be caught off-guard. 

The doors and shades opened into crisp cold sunshine. On turning back into the shop, though, his eye was caught by an unaccustomed shine by the cash drawer.

He found a black ribbon with a small coin hung on it--one of last night’s revelers must have dropped it, he thought. But when he picked it up to see if he could figure out who had lost it, his breath caught. 

The black ribbon had red threads woven through it, which wasn’t unusual in and of itself. But rather than the careful initials or hearts he was expecting, the silver dime had been carefully buffed and carved with angel wings--extended high on one side into almost a teardrop shape, folded on the other into a restful feathered heart. 

“Crowley…” he murmured, but couldn’t think at all of what else to say. 

***

He carefully hung the token on his watch chain, knowing it was a risk but also that representatives of Heaven wouldn’t attach any significance to one more silly human custom. There was nowhere he could keep it that would be safer than on his own person, and… and it made him feel better, knowing it was there, feeling its weight. 

He got through the day, somehow. He helped people, and he smiled (oh, he smiled, more than he had smiled in ages, he couldn’t stop himself from smiling every time the token clinked against his watch chain). Finally the last person had bought their books and he closed gratefully, sweeping out the dust of the day and then bundling into his heavier coat for the walk to Mayfair. 

It was cold and damp--the morning’s crispness had morphed into the more usual grey London sog. But he had a spring in his step and a decent vintage in the bag on his shoulder, ready to go make his own overtures to his counterpart. 

Crowley’s flat was dark and still. There was no response to his knocking, and after a few minutes’ dithering he convinced the door to open to him. The rooms were dark. He could feel the demon’s presence, but his mortal senses were lost in gloom and silence as he navigated the flat by his own summoned light. “Crowley?” he called softly.

No answer. He wasn’t sure he expected one at this point. 

Feeling increasingly as though he was intruding, he pressed on regardless. He’d come this far, after all, chasing Crowley’s oddly muted presence. Aziraphale was a creature of suppressed curiosity and deep caring. Both pressed him onward, to find whatever was here to be found. If Crowley was angry, well, he already had an apology wine in his bag, right?

The last door radiated a sense of privacy. He approached it anyway, stepping up to it. “Crowley?” he tried again, with a gentle knock, and pushed the door open when there was no response. 

Ah, yes. The demon’s bedroom was plush and lavish, the demon’s bed even more so. And the demon himself, in the middle of it, slept heavily without stirring as Aziraphale crept in carefully. 

“Oh, my dear. You might have said,” he said, gently pulling a lock of bright hair away from the closed eyes. “I suppose you were sleeping before, as well?” 

Crowley slept. 

“I should have guessed, really. I should have checked in on you, as well. I should have--well. That is neither here nor there. I do wish you were awake, but if you've gone back to sleep I will trust that you need it. And then… then, may we both handle things better on your waking."

He dithered for a moment, then pulled out the wine and set it on the small nightstand. “For when you wake,” he said, and briefly touched the sleeping brow. “And may all your dreams be sweet ones."

***

**2020**

Aziraphale was happily shelving books in the expanded library of their cottage. Crowley had finally told him off to do so after they'd spent the afternoon trying to arrange a modicum of logic to the kitchen cabinets and mostly succeeding only in getting in one another's way. Now the demon was sorting through one of the inevitable boxes simply labeled "random."

There was a carved wooden box in there, not one of his. He lifted it out carefully.

Not carefully enough, though, he realized as the aged wood gave way and spilled its contents on the floor. "Bollocks!"

"Everything all right, dear? What was that?" came from the other room.

"It's fine, angel!" he called back, starting to pick things up. "Box came apart on me. Your stuff, though. You might want to check it."

"Oh, I say. I'll be along directly!"

Well, that could mean anywhere from forty seconds to an hour or so. Crowley fitted the bits of the box together on the table and started putting things back into it. A stray button or two, a length of ribbon. A smoked lens that might have been from one of his pairs of spectacles. The gleam of a silver coin, bounced just under the edge of the cabinet--

He was still holding the coin when Aziraphale joined him, however long later--turning it over in his fingers as though it held answers, as though its history were to be read by simple touch.

"What are you--Oh, yes. That box. I’m so sorry, I should have reinforced it. Or at least warned you that it was weakened."

"You kept it."

“Kept what?” Aziraphale said absently, and then apparently noticed what Crowley was looking at. “Oh! Oh, my dear, of course I did! It was such a kind gift, after all.”

Crowley continued turning the angel-wing charm over in his hands. “I only had it for a day or so, but… it’s a lot more worn, though, isn’t it?”

“Well, yes. That does tend to happen with watch-chain charms. I finally put it away when it started to lose too much of the definition.”

“You wore it? Out in front of everyone?”

Warm hands closed around his, and his angel was suddenly kneeling in front of him. “Of course I did! You had it made for me. I had intended to have it there for you to see, when you woke--we were never allowed to make proper apologies, and I wanted you to see that this had meant something. But then… well, you slept so long, my love. I missed you, even when I wasn’t properly allowing myself to admit it, and the charm made me think of you. Oh, and-- there should have been--” The angel broke off, and released his hands, casting through the things in the box and then looking about on the floor where there were still bits everywhere. 

“What is it?” 

“Hold on a moment, please--” Aziraphale bent and peered under the edge of the counters, and then into the corners around the table and chairs. Crowley found himself bending as well, looking for he-didn’t-know-what, picking up the stray detritus of centuries while he did. 

“A- _ha!”_ Aziraphale pulled back from where he had half-crawled under the table, standing and dusting off his hands. “We’ve only just moved in, how is it dusty under there already?”

Crowley heroically refrained from pointing out that dust followed Aziraphale in much the same way blessings did--constantly, universally, and often without the slightest bit of actual input from the angel. “What is it?”

“This. Here, it was for you.” Aziraphale handed him a similar small bit of silver, not as worn, but-- 

“It’s a snake,” Crowley said, and realized that was a stupid thing to say because it was self-evidently a snake and Aziraphale clearly knew that because he’d been looking for it. 

“It is. Look at the other side.”

The other side had a wing design, extended in flight. 

“...Crowley?”

He realized he’d been staring, turning this one over and over as well, comparing its bright-new engraving to the worn wings on the other and completely missing what Aziraphale had been saying. “Hmm? What was that?”

“Are you in there?” Aziraphale said kindly, with the wry smile his voice sometimes got when he was just too fond to contain it and it leaked everywhere. 

Crowley smiled back despite himself. “You had this made for me?”

“Well, yes. I’m afraid I attempted to make one myself but the necessary skills to do it properly were quite beyond me, but young Arthur was quite accomplished and appreciated the commission.”

“You made me a lover’s token,” Crowley said again. “In the 1860s.”

“It was never _only_ lovers, Crowley. And, and you made one for me. It meant a lot, after I was dreadful to you, and I was happy to wear it, and it was a common enough human thing that I didn’t ever feel I needed to hide it. If you’d miracled it… well, if you’d miracled it I couldn’t have worn it, not with the constant possibility of Gabriel showing up. But since you had it made the human way, it was just one more little human foible, wasn’t it?”

“How come you never told me?”

“Oh, I rather forgot, I think. Really, you slept for so very long. They were quite out of fashion by the time you woke up, and I’d stopped wearing yours as it was simply too precious to allow to deteriorate any further.”

“Surprised you didn’t miracle it.”

“That would have drawn attention to it I didn’t really want to consider, though. I, well, I wasn’t thinking quite a lot about exactly what it meant to me, and what you meant to me, and how very very entangled I had gotten. It was easier, and safer, to set it aside when it was no longer the fashion.” Aziraphale laughed, a little sadly. “My dear, if you’re waiting for me to say that I’m not the most contemptible coward, I’m afraid you’re going to be waiting rather a long time.”

“Not a coward. A survivor.” Crowley tore his gaze away from the pair of tokens and met his angel’s colorshift eyes. “I could have handled it better, too. We were both just trying to survive, angel.”

“Very sweet of you to say. And don’t growl at me, ‘sweet’ is not a four-letter word and I will use it if I like. But I was, you know. I couldn’t even say what you meant to me inside my own head.”

“You could now, though.” 

“Oh, I can. Shall I? I could go classical for this, and compare thee to a summer’s day.”

“Ehh, don’t bring Will into this. He’d have had it off with you in a jig if you’d given him half a look of encouragement, and then I’d have had to curse him or something.”

“Well, then, I suppose I shall have to choose my language carefully,” Aziraphale said, and his eyes went very green as he knelt again and took Crowley’s chin in his hand. 

Crowley closed his eyes a second before their lips met, Aziraphale warm and insistent, generous, tasting of the tea and cake they’d had earlier, and as their mouths moved he let his senses drown in the sweet of him, in the sunshine-heat and light of him. He dove into it, hands clenching around their tokens of the past, then as Aziraphale maneuvered closer, one leg shifting between his knees, he carefully set them down on the floor in favor of putting his hands to better use.

He let one rest on Aziraphale’s soft hip, pulling him in closer; wound the other up into candyfloss curls that never failed to be even softer than he expected, no matter how often they did this. 

He hated to pull away, but his knees were starting to ache and he was beginning to think that some of the trinkets from the box had actually ended up under them. “Is the bed upstairs still covered with boxes, do you remember?”

Aziraphale’s eyes went unfocused for a moment, and his fingers twitched on Crowley’s jaw. “Not anymore, no.”

“Can’t believe I fell in love with a cheater.” 

“Well you are a demon, dear.” The soft smile that went with those words took out any sting they might have held. “I had to learn _some_ bad habits to attract you.” Aziraphale stood, and offered him a hand up. “Come upstairs. We can clean this up later. Right now I believe I need to compose some sonnets on you. With my tongue.” He blinked. “...nothing really rhymes with ‘tongue,’ does it?”

“Hung,” Crowley supplied helpfully, with a waggle of his eyebrows. 

Green eyes narrowed in speculation. “Hmm. Just for that, I think it will be a sonnet and a sestina. Yes, I rather relish the thought of making you hold still through repeated themes.” The angel reached out to him, turned him gently around and nudged him toward the stairs. “I did promise to tell you how I feel.”

He knew he was pushing his luck, but he couldn’t resist. “What, no ‘get thee beneath me, foul fiend’?” 

“Oh, perhaps later. If you’re _very_ good,” his lover said, and followed him up the stairs.

**Author's Note:**

> Of the three prompts given I chose "Crowley decides to apologize to his Angel after their fight in the 1800`s." Alas, I cannot provide smut, but I hope the happy takes care of the angst. :)
> 
> \--I will die on the hill that Aziraphale has helped supply prophylactics to the people of Soho when they were hard to find, and it's surprisingly difficult to work it into a fic. The amazing PeniG has it that a certain book can always be purchased which contains a supply of rubbers (A Cup of Cocoa, https://archiveofourown.org/works/27137536 , read it if you haven't, it's lovely) and I declined to outright steal that for this but I was sorely tempted and it was a very close thing.
> 
> \-- _Black Bess, or the Knight of the Road_ is as far as I can tell the title of a penny dreadful series which starred Dick Turpin the highwayman (Black Bess was his horse). I couldn't resist. 
> 
> \--The love token/coin charm thing was real and apparently pretty common, before it fell out of favor. I hadn't known about it before this, but it's pretty interesting if you go look into it!
> 
> Thanks go out to VerdantVulpus for beta read and help with the wassail tradition, and LastSaskatchewanPirate and GeiaStGermaine for beta and cheerleading.


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